


Sherlollipops - Grumpy Soulmates

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [197]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Soulmates AU, Uni!lock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock Holmes,” he said as the officer holding his arm shook him impatiently. “The address,” he added over his shoulder as he was led away for fingerprinting and the usual fol-der-rol, “is 32 Montague Street. See you later!”</p><p>“Molly Hooper!” she called after him. “And <i>maybe</i> you’ll see me later!”</p><p>The smirk he gave her before vanishing from her view spoke volumes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Grumpy Soulmates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maejones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maejones/gifts).



> Inspired by this set of photos of Loo and Ben (put together by mae-jones and entitles "Grumpy Soulmates") on set for S4: http://thedragonaunt.tumblr.com/post/145437349183/grumpy-soulmates

_Note: Any resemblance to actual police procedures used in the UK for the situation described below is strictly coincidental, as I did zero research on it._

“Oh God, honestly?” The woman with the dishevelled head of (dyed) red hair cast her (lovely, soft brown) eyes toward the ceiling. “Here? Now? Fuck.”

The scruffy-looking man whom she’d accidentally brushed against - which touch had caused his (and obviously her) skin to prickle all over as if with simultaneous sunburn and goosebumps - looked down at her with a sneer on his lips. “Doesn’t surprise me at all. If ever I was going to find my soulmate, it would be under exactly these sort of circumstances. My brother is going to piss himself laughing. Possession with intent to sell,” he added, seemingly apropos of nothing.

She caught on without any further hints, much to his surprise, considering the raging hangover she was undoubtedly suffering - and, he noted with an internal smirk, the appreciative way she’d raked her eyes over his form before they’d even touched. “Drunk and disorderly,” she recited, starting to raise her hand - most likely to offer him a sardonic ‘how d’you do’ handshake - then doing a double-take at the sight of the cuffs adorning her wrists. “Shit. Forgot about them. God, I’d murder for a cuppa - well, not seriously,” she added with a nervous titter as she glanced at her surroundings.

They were in the processing area of whatever local police station happened to have scooped them up - he had no idea where, nor did he care. Even the prospect of having to listen to Mycroft lecturing him when he came to bail him out - again - didn’t piss him off as much as it normally would. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said as the officer holding his arm shook him impatiently. “The address,” he added over his shoulder as he was led away for fingerprinting and the usual fol-der-rol, “is 32 Montague Street. See you later!”

“Molly Hooper!” she called after him. “And _maybe_ you’ll see me later!”

The smirk he gave her before vanishing from her view spoke volumes.

**oOo**

“Fuck,” she said softly as she rolled her head back on her shoulders. “This is sooo not how I wanted this to happen!”

“How you wanted what to happen? Ta, Freddie, I’ll take it from here!” the new – far, far too cheerful – voice added.

“Fuck,” Molly said with feeling as she looked up to see her flatmate, Sergeant Sally Donovan, grinning down at her. “Just when I thought this night couldn’t get any worse.”

“Yeah, good to see you too,” Sally said, still grinning. She picked up the incident report and made a show of reading it over. “Oh my, Molly, you’ve been a bad girl – picking a fight in a bar…”

“He grabbed my boob, what was I supposed to do, let him?”

“…property damage…”

“That barstool was rickety as hell already, I’ll be damned if I’m paying for that!”

“…and the cherry on the cake, resisting arrest! Ooh, says you took a swing at Officer O’Hanlon, shame on you!”

“He was…it was…oh, fuuuck,” Molly groaned as she realized she had no good excuse – reason! – for that one. “Just lock me up and get it over with.”

Sally tilted her head to one side, pretending to consider it, then grinned. “Nah, too much paperwork. Freddie says he’ll drop the resisting arrest, and witnesses saw the shit-head who grabbed you, said he deserved to be punched and signed statements to that effect after you were hauled down here. Just compensate the bar owner for the stool – yes, I know it was already crap but do it – and this will all be over with. Agreed?”

Molly gave a sullen huff, then nodded. While Sally took care of getting her released, Molly offered an apology to Office O’Hanlon, who was nursing a bruised cheek. He muttered a half-hearted acceptance, and she made a mental note not to do anything so stupid ever again, no matter how drunk she got. A few minutes later Sally showed up, and the two of them headed back to their flat.

It wasn’t until the next day, when Molly’s left arm began itching like mad, that she remembered what else had happened that night.

She thought about it while she was showering, while she was having a cup of (very strong) black coffee, while she was making herself as presentable as she could manage under the circumstances. Said circumstances being that her head was pounding, her stomach was still debating on whether or not to let the coffee stay, and her arm was still itching. It was impossible to find a shirt with sleeves that didn’t irritate the arm, so she gave up and threw on a bright yellow sleeveless vest and debated over whether or not to look up her soulmate.

A walk, she decided, would be a really good idea right now. Just a stroll around the block to clear her head and settle her stomach. She slipped into a pair of ballet flats, grabbed her handbag and keys, and started down the stairs.

**oOo**

Sherlock heard the buzzer ring, ignored it, then realized who it might be and bolted upright from where he’d been lounging on the sofa. Casting an eye about his flat (and running a hand over the scruff still decorating the lower half of his face), he debated sparing a few seconds to tidy both sitting room and face up a bit, then decided against it. Wouldn’t do to keep his potential soulmate waiting.

 _Soulmate._ The word still felt foreign in his mind, at least as it related to him. He’d never expected to have one; neither of his elder brothers ever had and likely never would, both having reached the magical age of thirty, when one’s chances of meeting a soulmate decreased exponentially. He’d assumed the same fate awaited him, but no. He was opening the front door and greeting a very nervous looking Molly Hooper, inviting her in and then closing the door behind her.

She followed him up the stairs to his first-floor flat, not even blinking at the mess that greeted her. He mumbled an apology, she brushed it off; he offered coffee and she perked up a bit. “Still hungover?” he couldn’t resist asking as he rinsed out the coffee pot that had been his very first purchase after moving out of the dorms. It was a defense mechanism, and he knew it but old habits - and he had so many old habits, too many to count - were hard to break.

“Just a bit. Still high?” she snarked right back.

“How do you know I was using? I was arrested for possession with intent to sell,” he reminded her as she wandered into the small kitchen and watched him measure out the coffee grounds.

He wasn’t just asking to ask; he truly wanted to know the answer. They’d both done a smashing job of hiding their shock at meeting their soulmate under flippancy, but in the cold light of sobriety, how would they assess one another?

 _No,_ he scolded himself. _Don’t generalize. You’re not worried about how well you’ll get on with_ her, _you’re worried about how quickly she’ll realize what a sorry excuse for a human being you are and toss you out of her life forever._

The realization that he didn’t want that to happen came as something of a shock.

While his mind skated perilously close to panic, she was answering his question. “Your eyes were bloodshot, you’re underweight and very pale, you’ve got dark circles under your eyes as well, shaky hands, chapped lips…need I go on?”

He licked his lips self-consciously at that one, but couldn’t help grinning approvingly at her accurate analysis of him. “Spot on,” he said, hunting about for the sugar bowl as the panic receded. She was sharp and not afraid to speak her mind, two things any soulmate of his would need. Now where was that sugar bowl…ah, there. He’d jammed it into the cabinet above the stove, behind a book on beekeeping and a stack of mismatched saucers. 

“I suppose you’ll want me to give it up, if we’re going to make a go of things.”

“Yes.”

He paused in the act of pulling the sugar bowl down, turning to study her. There was no humor in her expression, and her lips were pressed tightly together. “Which sibling?” he asked quietly.

“My sister,” she replied. “Mum took her to Australia to help her get a fresh start after rehab.”

“I see.” And he did; he saw so much, and for once he hesitated before spewing out his deductions. Still, if there was any chance for the two of them to actually make a go of things - and much to his surprise, he found he actually wanted to do so - then they would need to know more about each other. “Your sister turned to drugs after the death of your father. His death is why you dropped out of uni and is the root of your current anger issues. You’re trying to decide if you should bother going back to school or just keep working at your friend’s tattoo parlor. I’d say going back to school would be the right choice; you’re intelligent enough, and would do well in your chosen profession.”

“Which would be…?” she asked, not seeming at all put out by his deductions. He’d expected her to yell at him, so her half-asked question was a pleasant surprise.

“Something in the medical field,” he replied. “Quite compatible with my own studies, as I’m pursuing a degree in chemistry.” She raised an eyebrow and he hastily added, “Yes, of course I see the irony. Please don’t make the obvious joke.”

The coffee had finished brewing, and he poured her a large mug, letting her stir in the sugar. He didn’t bother apologizing for the lack of milk; he took his coffee black and the last carton he’d purchased was probably in the process of converting to cottage cheese in the back of the fridge.

“I’m still not sure about this,” she said as she cradled the mug in her hands. “If we just walk away from one another, the itching will fade and eventually die and we can just go on with our lives as we were. I mean, I’m pretty messed up, in case you didn’t figure that out last night.”

“So am I,” he replied, scratching idly at his arm. It seemed to be getting worse, and he had a vague idea that it meant the potential bond between them would be quite strong if they chose to pursue it. “Far too messed up to make a good partner, or at least, that’s what I thought.”

She scrunched her brow a bit, and he had to fight the urge to tell her how utterly adorable she looked when she did that. Instead, he plowed on. “According to the cursory reading I did after I was released last night - older brother, hates having the Holmes name dragged through the mud, makes sure to clean up my messes - whatever biological or spiritual imperative that creates the potential for two people to bond…”

“...can be triggered by how much they need another,” Molly finished for him. “I’ve heard that theory, even studied it a bit at uni. Like, if we’d met a year ago, we might not have been right for each other.” She scratched her arm, then self-consciously dropped her hand to her side. “I just...well, it just seems a bit off to me. We’re neither of us in a good place right now! Can two wrongs actually make a right? Or will it just turn two fucked-up people into two co-dependent fucked-up people?”

“Guess we won’t know unless we actually go through with it. Truth be told,” he continued, hearing Mycroft’s mental snort of disdain in his mind as clearly as if his brother was in the room, “if we hadn’t met last night, I’d be out right now looking for another fix. And as for that chemistry degree - chances are I’d never have completed it.”

God, what was wrong with him, what was it with all this emotional honesty all of a sudden? Somehow he didn’t want to ever lie to her, this woman he’d known for less than twenty-four hours. And he couldn’t blame it on the soul-bond, which wouldn’t completely - and unbreakably - form until they’d exchanged a kiss. One that had sincere sentiment behind it, something he’d always found harder to believe in than the mystical bond itself.

She sighed and leaned against the counter, staring pensively into her mug of coffee. “I’ve been drifting,” she admitted quietly. “Ever since my Dad died - cancer, in case you were wondering, took him almost a year ago - it’s like I haven’t been able to move on. My studies went to shit because I just couldn’t focus, so I dropped out. My mum has her hands full with my sister and her own grief, so I lie and tell her I’m fine, but I drink far too much and I lash out.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “Good thing my flat-mate’s a police officer or I’d probably be in jail by now.” She took a nervous sip of her coffee, clearly feeling as if she’d said too much.

“Therapist?”

She shook her head, and Sherlock refrained from telling her that he’d already known the answer. “Just bottle therapy and friends telling me I’ll be fine, that I’ll get through this. Only I haven’t...until now.” She gave another nervous laugh. “Today I woke up with a hangover and for once my first thought wasn’t wondering how long after noon I’d have to wait for a little pick-me-up.” She gave him a shy glance. “All I could think about was you, and how disappointed you must be that your soulmate is such a mess.”

“Funny, I’ve been thinking the same thing about myself.”

**oOo**

Molly had had _intentions_ when she left her flat. She’d intended to just go for a walk, not end up on her soulmate’s doorstep. Once she found herself there, she’d _intended_ to tell him that there was no way she was tying herself to a junkie, to point out that she was no prize herself, and then leave. She’d certainly never planned on telling him anything about herself, especially not something so personal about her sister Melanie. But as she nervously gulped down another mouthful of coffee, all she could think about was how non-judgmental he’d been. Yes, glass houses and all that, but still. There hadn’t been any pity either, just a matter-of-fact acceptance of her words.

And he seemed sincerely interested in actually trying this on, which she still found hard to believe. Why would anyone - even an admitted drug-user - want to permanently tie himself to her? “So what now?” she asked. “I get a therapist, you go into rehab, we both get back to our studies and let the soul-bond take care of everything else?”

He smiled, a slow curling of the lips that turned him from merely attractive to utterly gorgeous. “Why not? Nothing else has been working for us, why not give it a go?”

Why not, indeed? In that very instant, she made up her mind. “A soul-bond is supposed to make that sort of thing a bit easier, so I’ve heard. Getting through rehab and kicking an addiction, fighting off depression…I guess it can’t hurt.”

As if divining the reason behind her attempt to sound as if she wasn’t nearly vibrating with her desire to make this work, Sherlock reached up and brushed his fingers through her hair. “I like the red. It goes well with your complexion.” His voice deepened a bit as he added, “And after I get back from rehab, I look even more forward to seeing your natural hair color.”

Molly blushed, her entire face suffusing with heat as he darted his eyes toward her crotch, making his meaning quite clear. “Well, yes,” she agreed with a slight stutter that she hadn’t been afflicted with since she was eighteen. “I have to say, you’re very fit even if you’re underweight, and I’ve never seen eyes like yours before. And don’t even get me started on those curls!”

He licked his lips and stepped closer, placing his untouched mug on the counter next to hers. “So. We’re going to do this, then. Should we seal it with the traditional kiss?” He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She didn’t resist, just ran her hands up his chest before settling them on his shoulders.

“Yes,” she said, and he bent down to press his lips against hers.

The tingle of energy she’d felt in her arm the night before was nothing compared to the sizzling heat that went through her as they kissed. He started a bit, pulled back to stare at her through wide eyes, then dove in for another kiss. This one was just as lovely as the first, a promise of passion they’d make good on after they’d both got their individual demons under control. The warm burn in her chest was a sign that the soul-bond had taken; they’d both been utterly sincere in their desire to remain soulmates, and Molly felt a burst of true happiness for the first time in over a year.

Despite their less-than-stellar first meeting; despite the many roadblocks they faced on the road to making that happiness permanent...despite misunderstandings and relapses and some truly epic fights, in the end, the bond between them would only grow stronger. Whether it was a blessing from God or the Fates, or merely a quirk of human biology that had never been pinned down, in the end, the only thing that mattered was that it worked.

 

 


End file.
